


This Boy Fights Monsters

by wendigo_alderson



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellamy has a big heart, Clarke feels horrible abt leaving Bell and he just wants her to be happy, F/M, Hurt Clarke, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bellamy, Self-Harm, it's like not intentional, kind of not really, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 16:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14109102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendigo_alderson/pseuds/wendigo_alderson
Summary: The words ring through her head again.“You left me.” Her fingernails bite into the sensitive skin of her upper arm, she can feel the blood welling.“You left everyone.” Her scrubbing has turned frantic against her skin, rubbing away patches of pale flesh but she still doesn’t feel clean. Her breaths coming out ragged and it feels like an invisible force is suffocating her. As if those three words have slithered around her ribcage and constricted until her bones crack weakly.





	This Boy Fights Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed so hopefully there's not a ton of mistakes...if you're easily triggered by gore or panic attacks or any of that PLEASE DON'T READ THIS, keep yourself safe guys! This is somewhat of a vent piece so yeah. Hope it isn't too angsty.

The words ring in her head on repeat, they won’t stop, it’s like the pulsing of an alarm, like the blaring that pierced the air as he took her hand and pulled that lever. She feels bile rise in the back of her throat at the thought of his gentle touch. His trust in her. The hissing of the water falling from the shower head helps dull some of the noise, but not much. The private bathroom is a makeshift shower and mirror made from old parts on the Ark, bent together in a mess of wiring and scrap to produce a fully functioning shower in the closet-sized space. Clarke bites her lip at the thought of Jasper and Monty, working together in the winding crevices of the remains of the Ark, thinks about how she’s let them down, she’s let everyone down. The words ring through her head again. 

_ “You left me.”  _ Her fingernails bite into the sensitive skin of her upper arm, she can feel the blood welling. 

_ “You left everyone.”  _ Her scrubbing has turned frantic against her skin, rubbing away patches of pale flesh but she still doesn’t feel clean. Her breaths coming out ragged and it feels like an invisible force is suffocating her. As if those three words have slithered around her ribcage and constricted until her bones crack weakly. 

Bellamy pushes open the door to Clarke’s room gently, hoping the creak will alert her of his presence. But when the door swings fully open he’s met to the sight of her empty chair and couch, desk scattered with papers. His eyebrows furrow as he frowns, following the hissing sound of water coming from the shower room. His long legs carry him to the door in only a few strides and before he knows it he’s knocking softly on the door. 

“Clarke? You in there.” No reply. He knocks a little harder, a hum of anxiety creeping into the back of his mind.   
“Clarke? It’s Bellamy.” The stagnant air hinders no reply. His face hardens in concern as he tries to rationalize with himself. Hell, it’s Clarke, she’s probably fine, deaf as she is. But his anxiety gets the better of him, eyebrows scrunching up as he reaches for the door handle.

“Clarke, I’m coming in.” He pushes the door open slowly at first, and then faster as he sees Clarke’s silhouette through the makeshift curtain. The curtain distorts her form but doesn’t hide much, and suddenly his heart is in his throat as he notices the oozing red on her upper arm. 

 

Clarke faintly hears a voice calling her name, and she knows it’s likely her imagination getting the better of her. She squeezes her eyes shut as hard as she can, stars bursting behind her eyelids at the force. And then the shower curtain is being ripped back and two strong hands are clutching both sides of her face. His freckles come into view first as her eyes fly open, wet lashes stuttering against her cheeks, followed by his eyes, almost welling with tears, filled with terror. 

“Clarke? Clarke hey, hey it’s me, Bellamy.” She blinks slowly, at the figure before her, dark curls plastered to his forehead by the spray of water, black t-shirt clinging to his form. Under different circumstances she would’ve been rather appreciative of the view. But suddenly her knees are buckling under her and Bellamy quickly grabs her waist before she follows, bringing them both to the floor. He’s hugging her tightly against his chest and she buries her face into the gap of his shoulder and neck. A voice in the back of her head tells her he shouldn’t be here, holding her close like she means something. She  _ left him.  _ Clarke wants to push him back, tell him that he shouldn’t be doing this, not after what she’s done to him. But encircled in his firm grip, cheek pressed against his warm skin, she feels at home for the first time in months. Selfish as it may be, she can’t deny herself this moment of security. He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and her moment of clarity instantly shatters and she’s sobbing even harder. Bellamy whispers a breathless “Shit”, thinking he’s done something wrong. It’s just too much. His gentle touch, the careful pads of his fingers against her skin, after all she’s done to him, he caresses her with loving hands. She faintly feels the jut of his chin as he rests it atop her head, pressing a soft kiss into her hairline. 

“Shhhh Princess, I got you, it’s okay.” The rumble of his voice reverberates through his chest and her hands clench tighter against the soaked fabric of his shirt. She’s molded against his body, shaking uncontrollably while Bellamy holds her so tightly, as if he’s afraid that she’ll simply disappear if he lets her go. He doesn’t let go until the water turns cold and Clarke’s teeth begin to chatter. He begins to loosen his grip on her and her response is immediate, clutching him suffocatingly tight as her breathing picks up, quick and unsteady. His eyebrows furrow and his deep brown eyes fill with overwhelming emotion as he stares down at the impossibly small blonde figure clutching his chest.

“Hey, hey, Clarke, hey, I’m just turning the water off, okay?” He says soothingly, brushing his fingers through her damp hair as he speaks. She nods against his neck and he takes this as permission to turn off the shower. As he gently pulls her to her feet, they both seem to realize her state of undress. Bellamy’s cheeks turn flaming red as Clarke curls in on herself. He jumps out of the shower so quick he almost crashes to the floor in his attempts to fetch her a towel. She releases one arm from around her chest to take it from him, adding a soft,

“Thank you,” as Bellamy nods, looking anywhere but at her naked frame. He snaps out of it when she begins to shake again, towel wrapped tightly around her form. He reaches for her elbow, helping her step out of the shower, and guiding her gently to her bed. He motions for her to sit down while he fetches clothes. He unconsciously scoops up his ratty sweater from the couch as he collects her the necessary items. She nods gratefully as he sets the items down beside her and he pretends to become rather interested in a spot on the wall as she dresses. When he turns around to see her, huddled in his old sweater, opting against the uncomfortable pants he had grabbed her, he melts. He makes quick work of grabbing the medical kit from her bedside table, before crawling onto the bed beside her. He’s impossibly close, his breath fanning against the pale skin of her jaw as he reaches for the hem of his sweater. His eyes dart up to hers in silent question and she nods, a strand of golden hair slipping in front of her eyes at the movement. His nimble fingers make contact with the skin of her shoulder and she sucks in a breath. He pauses, eyes darting back up to hers but she simply nods again. He makes quick work of pulling down the loose fabric, exposing her scratched up shoulder. She hisses at the contact while he sucks in a harsh breath at the sight of her tattered skin. 

“Clarke,” He murmurs breathlessly, voice watery. She turns her head away from him, hair creating a soft veil around her features as she tries to even her breathing. Bellamy struggles to push down the flood of emotions threatening to burst free, instead averting his eyes from her torn flesh. The dark crescents left by her fingernails stand out, angry and red, against the skin of her shoulder. Blood drips lazily from the wounds as Bellamy rummages sporadically through the med-kit, quickly locating a pad of gauze and pressing it against the wound. He’s watched Clarke enough times to know he’s going to have to clean out the cuts. 

He’s almost finished cleaning the area when she finally speaks up, momentarily startling them both. 

“Why are you doing this?” The words have no heat behind them, simply curiosity. The washcloth pauses against her skin as he looks up at her, cocking his head to the side, unruly curls flopping in front of his eyes as he furrows his brows and frowns in confusion. 

“Doing what?” She pauses before answering as he goes back to scrubbing carefully at her inflamed skin.

“...helping me.” He pulls the cloth back entirely from her skin, grip tightening.

“Clarke…” he begins, voice sounding almost hurt. 

“No, Bell, I hurt you, fuck, I left you, I- and you’re- you’re helping me like I’m-like I’m good-like I’m worth this, but all I do is hurt people.” She can practically feel him flinch at the mention of his own words and her mouth quickly snaps shut. He’s silent for a few beats and when he speaks his voice comes out quiet. 

“We’re all a lit broken around the edges, that’s what makes us people I guess. But...I didn’t fight through this just to let you walk away again. You’re not the only one terrified of losing someone.” He stares down at his hands while he speaks, tugging at the rag anxiously. He blinks in surprise when her soft hand envelopes his own large one. He looks up at her, eyes wide, pupils blown and she smiles, sad and reflective. Her eyes flicker across his face, as if she’s trying to read some message written behind his dark curls and gold flecked irises. He’s not quite sure who moves first but everything else melts away when their lips meet. Her lips are soft and pliant against his, opening up against his own and his teeth find the skin of her bottom lip. His calloused palms come up to stroke the planes of her cheeks as she moves languidly against him. He only pulls back when he feels a tear slide down her face, he quickly swipes it away with his thumb, not moving far back, enjoying the feeling of her breath close against his face. 

“I’m scared,” she whispers as he strokes the pad of his thumb across her cheek in simple circles. 

“I know,” he replies, the unspoken words  _ “So am I,”  _ filling the room. She leans into his touch, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, her lips ghosting along the side of his neck. He holds her, Atlas, with the world on his shoulders, and she holds him like he is weightless. She’s scared. Scared of losing him, scared of falling in love with the boy that death can touch, and he’s just as scared. He disentangles himself for a moment to wrap a bandage around her shoulder, an extra precaution that Clarke deems unneccessary but he kisses her forehead gently as he does so, and she thinks maybe, this was all worth it. 


End file.
